


Variations in Routine Procedures

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Abusive Gynecology, Creampie, F/M, Human AU, I wrote this to be, MedFet, Medical Kink, Mindfuck, Misuse of Medical Equipment, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Roleplay, Secretly Recording Sexual Situations, Sexual Abuse, Situational Embarrassment, Stealthy Rapist, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Worshipful Rapist, but the PoV character gets method enough that if you prefer I think you could read it as a, rapist pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23758639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Dr. Fell is a professional gynecologist with a reputation for treating his patients with the utmost care and respect. He has never broken his oath to do no harm, never violated a patient's trust, never so much as felt a compulsion to touch where he shouldn't.Perhaps that is why he finds it so difficult to resist when finally faced with temptation. When presented with the sight of his newest patient on her back, exquisitely exposed for him with her legs spread wide in his stirrups, he is struck speechless by the absolute perfection of her. Throughout his career, he has never seen anyone so beautifully formed. He has never encountered a body so clearly meant to be enjoyed.He is, as ever, beholden to his duty of care, but, as never before, he starts to wonder whether there truly is harm in taking a bit more pleasure in his work than he otherwise might.If he's conscientious, if he's careful enough, she'll never even know. When faced with one as sweet as this, he finds he cannot help but succumb to temptation.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 154
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Good Omens Kink Meme Anonymous





	Variations in Routine Procedures

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for [this beautifully detailed kink meme prompt.](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2367321#cmt2367321) If you want even more detail on where this fic will go than the tags can provide, I hope that reading the prompt will give you a good overview of what you’ll find here. 
> 
> I envisioned this as a roleplay, and I may someday write a small follow-up that delves into that a bit more, but I think this stands well enough as a complete fic to post, and I think it can be read as a human AU with what's here. Hopefully it's open enough that people can take whatever reading they prefer on that aspect. 
> 
> As a note, I ended up stepping on the soapbox a little about hymens in this because I always hear that you can break yours before ever doing anything sexual and that's perfectly normal, but I almost never hear anything about how it's just as normal to still have one even after having PIV and/or other types of penetrative vaginal intercourse. Also, I guess in contexts like that of this fic, there can be an added layer to the gaslighting of someone who doesn't know about that fact. I didn't overtly include that in the text, but I definitely did not want to preclude the possibility of it happening either.

His next is a new patient. He flips through her chart as he waits for her to be sent into the examination room. Most practices, he supposes, would have her ready and waiting for him, already on her back in stirrups before he breezed into the room to poke at her, his time important and her feelings at being left displayed for whomever might wander in of negligible concern, but that's not how they do things here. Comfort is key. He is a good man, a good doctor, who really and truly cares about ensuring that his patients receive the best care available, and that extends to making them feel comfortable with what many experience as an embarrassing checkup procedure. He doesn't think any of his patients dread coming to see him enough to risk their health by putting appointments off, as they do for some of his colleagues. Dr. Fell is safe. He's safe enough for his patients to feel, if not comfortable, then at least secure around him when being made vulnerable in the intimate ways the practice of gynecology requires. His patients and even some of his colleagues perceive him this way for several reasons, some of which are accurate and some of which are based on assumptions he has no intention of dispelling, not when doing so might lessen the sense of security patients feel in his care.

He hears footsteps in the hallway, and a slight pause before his patient opens the door. She steps in alone and closes it behind her.

He takes his measure of her in person, a bit different from what he was expecting given the details on her chart. He finds her skirt scandalously short, but he knows his opinions on any clothing ending above the knee aren't widely shared. Her top is low cut enough that it would be scandalous if there were more filling it, but it manages to be almost demure with her figure. Unbound red hair falls over her cheeks, covering the arms of tinted glasses that she can't possibly need in this lighting. The hair is beautiful, and the dark glasses only emphasize its colour against her skin. It looks less ridiculous than he thinks it should when she's probably only wearing them to copy some starlet she's seen in a magazine. His gaze falls to her shoes; women tend to like when he pays obvious attention to those.

"Oh, those are lovely. I doubt I could walk in them. Are they real?" What he could do is fit all four fingers in the space between the heel and the floor and have room to wiggle them; she's practically on stilts. The heels are as dark as the rest of her clothes, excepting the bright red of the soles. Knowledge of Louboutins, let alone of the existence of fake Louboutins, is not something expected of most men. He lets her draw her own conclusions about him having it.

"Well, I'm picturing that now," she says with the slightest, most gorgeous wry smile. He feels his own lips pull up; he can never seem to control his face at times like this.

He's not here to grin stupidly at patients though. He's been tasked with a purpose, and he intends to fulfill it.

He looks away, back to her chart, and she makes something of a strangled noise. "I don't know. Look real enough though, don't they? You'd be Doctor Fell?"

Her accent is clearly meant to be American, and just as clearly put on, and put on wildly at that. He's no expert on the Americas, but even he can tell it's oscillating all over the country if not the continent. He thinks he can catch vowels from Boston and New Jersey alongside a southern twang. It's an offensively bad impression of an accent, but then, a number of Americans could stand to suffer a bit of offense. 

"Mmm, and you're Antonia." It's the name on her chart. "May I call you Annie?" 

"Absolutely not." The accent travels farther in two words than most humans manage in a lifetime. "If you can't be bothered to say all four syllables of someone's name, how can you claim to respect them as a person?"

That's an argument he hasn't heard before, though it draws close to a wild misinterpretation of one he has.

"Quite right, you're very insightful," he says, instead of pulling on that thread. "You'll need to undress, only the bottom, and get up in the chair."

"Right, I, uhh, I haven't done this, been to one of these, before. Is it okay to just take my whole skirt off? I was going to pull it up, but I think it'll wrinkle."

Again the accent marks her as not really American, but a liar. Or no, not a liar, but a dramatic young woman prone to exaggeration, playing up an accent – gained while travelling in her youth, he assumes, moving to another country and moving around in it before returning to London – to sound more interesting. The youth do stranger things. Not someone who invites people to take what comes out of her mouth seriously in any case.

"Can't have that," he glances up from her chart to smile at her for a disarming moment before turning back down to give her the illusion of privacy. "Take off whatever you need. I've seen it all before, I promise. I want you as comfortable as you can be up there, so if you think something's going to bunch or pinch, get it off and don't worry about it."

She hesitates for a moment before turning her back and unzipping her skirt.

He finds it often calms patients to talk while he works with them, to discuss something that takes their mind off of being uncovered for him, and he likes double-checking their details, hearing the information in the patient's own voice.

"Your chart says this is your first checkup since moving to London, that's correct then?"

"First checkup at all. Haven't seen one of your type before."

"My type?" He can read and watch her at the same time. He's noticed that as long as he has his face pointed at paper, people seem to assume his peripheral vision has entirely cut off.

She's made quick work of her skirt, set it on an empty chair, and with a quick look back at him she hooks her fingers under the band of her black underwear and pulls it unceremoniously down.

"Vadge doctors," she says, then there's a grunt and he hears her stumble, sees her throw a hand out to steady herself on the back of the chair. Her knickers have caught around the heel of one of her ridiculous shoes and she pulls the fabric away viciously before throwing it down beside her skirt.

He very carefully constrains any sign of amusement, apparently engrossed in her chart. Nevertheless he can feel her glare as she moves to the reclining examination chair and hops up on the crinkling sanitary paper.

He sets the chart down and looks over at her.

"Not so different from the GP, I think," he says and steps close to her. "You'll need to lie down, feet in these." He taps at the stirrups. 

She gets on her back for him readily enough, but has some difficulty fitting her feet into place. It would probably be easier if she'd taken her shoes off, but then the kind of girl who wears stilettos to a doctor's appointment is most likely used to keeping them on when her legs are spread.

He doesn't chastise her, whatever makes her more comfortable he'll permit. He helps her fit one into place as she focuses on the other. They really are lovely shoes, there's a slight snakeskin pattern only visible close up that he can't resist running his thumb over.

He catches her watching him and smiles again reassuringly. "Are you comfortable?"

"Not really. As much as I'm going to be though."

He pats her ankle and draws the thick curtain over the centre of the chair; it'll hide him from her as he works, provide her with what little privacy she can have. She wriggles a bit, adjusts her position and the fabric around her, and nods her satisfaction with the setup to him.

He slips on a pair of nitrile gloves, then moves around to the base of the chair. 

It's the first good look of her he really gets, and for the first time in his career it moves something in him. He's felt appreciation before – he's seen a lot of bodies, and each of them reflect God's beauty and wisdom in their own way – but nothing to make him feel like he's taken a punch to the gut.

Antonia's vulva is a work of art. It is perfection on Earth, a natural wonder.

Though she's slim, her mound is hardly scant. The light rise of her is positioned perfectly for his consumption, with a plume of red sheltering the delicate skin and folds of her quim. She'd epilated her legs, as is the fashion these days, but the hair of her mound has been left as a lovely puff, slightly darker than that of her head and just as dramatic a contrast to her skin, needing no assistance to draw the eye, framing her beautifully. 

It is without thought that he reaches out, drawn to discover for himself whether it feels as gorgeous as it looks.

She jumps slightly as he pets her, smoothing the hair and running his fingers through it. It takes him a moment to realise his actions are on the verge of inappropriate, but she says nothing, quiet and docile under his hand.

"I'm going to start with an external examination," he tells her. "We'll go over everything, since this is your first time. If I notice anything unusual we can discuss how to proceed. Do you have any concerns before we start?"

"No, not anything specific."

"You're generally healthy?" He pets her a final time before reluctantly pulling his hand away and settling himself into his chair. 

"Yep."

"And how old are you?"

"Why, I just turned eighteen." 

That line's clearly practiced; it's all southern belle from an old Hollywood picture. He wonders how many men she's said that to, and how they've responded; he might have a lot of work to do if she hasn't been using protection. 

"You look very mature for your age," he allows himself, and hears most of the accent drop for a quiet "Oh, fuck you," before it's back in full force for "A lot of older men have told me that." She emphasizes the 'older'. "I can't imagine why. It's rude is what it is."

He permits himself a little grin; she won't be able to see it through the curtain, which really was the most fabulous idea.

"My apologies." He runs his fingers between her inner and outer labia before coming to rest at the base of her slit. She does have a hymen, but only the slightest shred of one, a flexible crescent that sits unobtrusively below the entrance of her pink vaginal canal. It's not enough to impede the progress of a cock, or anything else she might be inclined to shove up there. "Are you sexually active?"

"No, I just lie there."

She waits for him to huff his amusement at the old joke before continuing. "No, I've never had a reason to see one of you." She shifts her hips, wriggles a little under his hand.

"It's good to come in for appointments even if you're not having sex. Your body does a lot with this whether or not you're letting anyone else touch you." He cups his hand over her vulva again, ostensibly to emphasize his point.

"That's not what we were taught. I went to a kinda religious school before I came here. Do you know what they're like? You're not even supposed to think about what's going on down there. Causes a lot of problems that, let me tell you." It's surprising that he can pick up on the hint of mischief in her tone given what her voice is doing, but it's there and it is unrepentant. 

He lifts his free hand and taps her thigh twice in admonishment. She gives the slightest of shivers under him.

"Anyway, that's why I haven't, uh, done anything like this before. But my friends here say it's important, so I guess, well, I'm all vaccinated up now and now this."

"Good girl. It's never too late to start seeking medical treatment."

"I think sometimes it can be actually." It's hard to tell under the accent, but he thinks she sounds flustered.

He nods in acquiescence to her point, then remembers she can't see that and follows it up with, "Quite right, but you're not too late here. I'll do a thorough examination, but I doubt you'll have anything to worry about."

She looks healthy. He removes his hands and leans closer, and she smells healthy. She smells delicious. 

He moves back before he can dwell on the feeling of moisture in his mouth, on the weight of his tongue and the desire to flick it out, to touch and taste and know if it- well, he moves back.

He pets her mound once again, using both hands, then pushes her labia back with his thumbs. She opens beautifully; if he were an artist he could fill a gallery just from the soft, pink sight of this.

She shifts under his hands again, adjusting the tilt of her hips minutely. 

"Are you uncomfortable?"

"I'm fine. I'm, it's fine."

He might actually be trying to soothe her when he moves his finger toward her clitoris. Certainly he's not trying to do anything else, he's not the sort of person who would.

She's hooded, the sensitive flesh concealed. She's picturesque as she is, but he can only imagine she'd be even more beautiful sensitive and thrumming for touch.

"So you've made good friends since moving here?" he asks. Really, he should, well, if she's as ignorant about this part of her body as she'd implied, he should make sure she has no problems with arousal. She wouldn't know if she did, wouldn't know if anything was wrong or what to ask about. It's a difficult position she's put him in; he's never had to do something like this before, and it feels more invasive than he's entirely comfortable with, but he can't in good conscience let someone like her walk out of his office without knowing whether she's entirely healthy. He needs to incite just a touch of arousal, only to make sure there is no dysfunction in her body's ability to respond. He has to ensure she's well cared for, especially if she's too ignorant to look after herself.

"Yeah, a few. People here are friendly enough."

He circles his finger around her clitoris several times. He sees what he thinks might be a response, but it's not an exceptionally quick or obvious one, and he can't expect much with the gloves, the slide of them just a bit too uncontrolled, offering less purchase than his bare finger would.

He needs to be delicate in this; such a fine body deserves a precise touch.

His hands are clean. They are exceptionally well cared for. They are tools for healing, for keeping those in his care safe.

He has never considered doing anything like this before. But this is such an exceptional case. He takes his hands off her and removes his gloves carefully and quietly. "Tell me about your favourite," he speaks to cover any suspicious sound he might not be able to prevent, "What's your best friend like?"

He places the tip of his finger directly on her hood and gives it a soft, undulating rub before moving back to circle around it.

She makes a smothered "mmph" of a sound and her hips jump, fitting her hood right under his finger again.

"Umm, I, umm, I have a few, a lot, very popular me. One of the cool girls."

"I'm sure." He almost entirely manages to keep the amusement out of his tone as he shifts his finger again, circling around rather than offering direct stimulation. "So what do you do with them?"

"Oh, normal things. Lunches, dinners, pillow-fights and reckoning with occult forces at sleepovers. Girl stuff."

"Is that so?" He asks, too distracted to come up with a better response. He can see the signs of her arousal now, her clitoris swelling, standing out sweet and pink, surrounded by soft, sensitive skin. It's so beautiful he can barely think.

What are the questions to be asked here? He's done past behaviour, so future intent?

"And is there anyone special? Someone you might be thinking of becoming sexually active with?"

"Oh, no, I don't, I don't think of that at all!"

"Really? Well, some people don't." He pulls his finger away and focuses on spreading her open again. She's producing natural lubrication now, the smell of her arousal rising with it, clean and musky and far too enticing.

"I mean, there is a boy I know, I like, but we haven't done much of anything and I don't know. I, I don't know."

"What does 'much of anything' mean?" He pets at her hair again, feeling it properly now without his gloves, strong, thick strands to run his fingers through. He wonders how she'd react if he curled his fingers in it and pulled, whether she'd arch or cry out, whether she'd love a sharp, grounding tug or hate the pain. 

He is a man of restraint, and he keeps his touch gentle.

"Does he use his hands on you, or his mouth?"

"We kissed, on the face, the mouth, we held hands. I didn't put them anywhere."

"Really? You're about the same age? All those hormones flooding your bodies, and he didn't try to push for more?" He moves his finger back to her clitoris with the lightest of touches, testing her sensitivity. 

"No, he's, he's very resss- restrained."

"Are you sure you're interpreting his behaviour correctly? Will he be happy with that for long? Has he tried to... the idiom escapes me, does he try to touch your breasts? That's often an indication he'll press his suit further."

"Oh, those, he barely looked at them the last time he had a chance." Despite the clear difficulty she's having concentrating on maintaining the conversation, that statement comes through fairly clear and with no less than a hint of irritation. 

"I'm sure he was just trying to be respectful of you."

"Oh, yeah, he's very respectful. Could call him repressed." She shifts her hips again, tilting in a way that must increase the pressure of his finger, so he pulls it slightly back to maintain the lightness of his touch. 

"He's a nerd." She huffs, "He's really annoying actually, I don't even like him that much sometimes. He can be very withholding."

"Terrible," he commiserates, moving his hand away entirely.

"And he's pretentious!" Her hips try to chase his hand for the barest moment before stilling, held tense and waiting like prey hoping to go unnoticed in the underbrush.

"Is he pretentious?" He's proven that she has no difficulty getting aroused. Her ability to provide natural lubrication is more than adequate. She's soaking, ready to drip.

"Terribly. He won't even listen to music more modern than the-" the chair rustles as she shifts again, dropping her hips into what's most likely a more comfortable position, "the synthesiser."

He almost pauses in his work to emphatically agree with her young man and praise his entirely reasonable taste, but this is really not the time for that.

"But he must have a redeeming feature?" He asks instead, using the index and middle fingers of one hand to spread her open, and bringing the pointer and middle fingers of the other together to press and rub at her clitoris more firmly than before. 

"Oh, he has some I suppose."

"Like what?"

"He, I, you don't, uhh, you don't want to hear about that." She makes a choked-off noise and a little grunt. That's all the warning he gets before she tenses, lifting her hips just slightly. He watches her twitch, spread open under his hands, body seeking and fleeing from sensation in equal measure. Her pleasure is glorious. He doesn't pull away from her clitoris until he hears her exhale. Her hips fall back against the chair and her thighs shiver and she really does drip.

He keeps her spread open.

"Are you still comfortable?" He asks. That had progressed more quickly than he'd been expecting. For all that she claims she doesn't know how to use it, her body is built for pleasure and rushes into it headlong.

"Yes, I, umm, why?" Her voice rises at the end with more speed than a casual question would warrant.

"You started," he makes a short, soft grunt of a noise, a sound to emphasize an upcoming prevarication, "shaking during the examination. We've only just started, and-"

"I'm just a bit nervous," she interrupts, speaking quickly as though afraid she'll be interrupted in turn. "Like I said, haven't done this before and it's, ah, it's all a bit strange."

"Of course, I understand." He has, perhaps, been slightly cruel in a certain way. The poor thing must be overwhelmed. It was for her own good, but still, "Having a stranger look at you like this and touch you here must be nerve-racking, I'm sure." 

"Oh, it is." She sounds almost grateful, and maybe she should be. Certainly orgasming against such a stranger's fingers while he's trying to work says a lot about a woman.

In any case, she's undeniably healthy according to the external exam.

She's also producing enough lubrication that he won't need to waste anything from a bottle on preparing the speculum.

He has that laid out alongside the rest of his tools, and a box of tissues that he's undoubtedly going to have to use just to keep her from soaking the chair.

The speculum he intends to use is metal and fairly small. Usually he'd need a moment to slick it up before fitting it inside someone, but it would be almost offensive to do that now, when her folds are more than slick enough with the juices her body has provided.

"I'm going to start the internal examination now," he squeezes her knee in reassurance with his free hand before reaching for the speculum. "I'll open you up a bit and take a look inside. Some people find this part feels strange, but there shouldn't be any pain. If anything hurts, let me know immediately; I don't want to do anything that will make you uncomfortable."

There's a quick, almost panicked-sounding laugh, "No, yeah, alright, okay."

Perhaps the hint of a snicker before he says, "You will be alright. I'll be sure to take good care of you" should have been better suppressed, but her babbling is genuinely entertaining. He's not making fun, he's simply having it.

"Are you, uh, are you wearing gloves?" she asks, and he freezes.

He knows, _he knows_ that what he has done – what he is doing – is deeply questionable. It was difficult for him to see it as necessary, it would be next to impossible for anyone else to see it so. He likes to think of himself as an honest person, as a trustworthy doctor and a virtuous man. Given that, he should say 'no', he should tell her that he took them off, he should own up to what is very likely to have been a significant misstep and accept whatever comes from it. He should take the chance, because there's a very good one that he could tell her the technical truth – that he'd needed to be more precise with his hands than they had allowed him to be – and she wouldn't know enough to consider that admission suspicious or think it in any way untoward. But if she did… if she did she would leave. She would leave feeling violated, and that's the absolute last thing he wants for the poor girl. He hasn't even seen inside her yet.

He huffs a laugh, trying to sound amused and more than slightly incredulous, "Of course I am, my dear. You saw me put them on, didn't you?"

"Yes, I must have, it just feels-" 

He lets himself laugh again, not particularly scornfully but not entirely without it either. "The gloves should have warmed to my skin by now. They're impermeable, I assure you. It's good to hear though. It's a newer brand we're using now, the usual ones were sold out on our last order, and it might be better if these feel more natural. Or maybe not, if it feels too natural, but your feedback is received." Now he's babbling. He clamps his mouth shut.

He's still holding her open, slick labia spread wide for him. Her canal is tight, a welcoming sight, and he's eager to spread it as well, to lift her walls from where they press against each other and open her interior for his study.

He does nothing more than press the tip of the speculum against her before she's jolting away with a shocked, "Oh!"

"Oh?" he asks, pulling back himself. 

"Oh, not that, not like that. That's no good."

"I don't know that it's meant to feel good-" he starts, before she cuts him off with "What was that?"

"The, uh, speculum? It slides into you, lets-"

"Not into me it doesn't."

"It'll have to if I'm to complete the examination." He studies the tool in his hand; there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it, he doesn't think he'd used it incorrectly.

"Well, give a girl some warning, will you?"

Ah. "Delicate little thing, aren't you?" He asks, running a finger over the very tip of the speculum where her natural lubrication had coated it before setting the instrument aside.

"I'm _not_ little" she insists, as though he's said something offensive. 

He doesn't fight her on it, just hums noncommittally as he runs his slicked finger over his own lips. He doesn't let his tongue out to taste, not yet. _You really are though_ he thinks, setting his hand back on her and letting the very tip of that finger press ever so gently against where she hadn't been able to take the speculum. He applies the lightest pressure, but she's too tense for even that to slip inside her, not easily.

"Was it the temperature, or was there discomfort?"

"It was cold!" she snaps at him. "Go shove an ice lolly up yourself and see how you like it."

He laughs. He knows it's the sort of laugh that people generally find disarming, but people generally don't hear it while spread open for him in stirrups. He tries to gentle his response with another quick squeeze to her knee.

"Very well. If it's too much for you like this, I'll warm it up for you. How does that sound?"

She shifts her hips and offers up a slightly begrudging "Thank you."

"Don't worry at all my dear," he runs his finger down her slit quickly before pulling away. "I want you to feel comfortable. I know this is new and strange, but the process exists for a reason. It's worth some hardship stay healthy, isn't it? Everyone who has one of these," he cups his hand over her mound for a moment, "has to go through it."

"I suppose."

He takes up the speculum again and examines it. In all fairness, it is cold; he likely wouldn't have enjoyed feeling it press into him either.

He warms the metal in his hands and enjoys the view of her. 

"Have you experimented with penetration before?" he asks. "If not with others, then alone?" It's not until he hears the question himself that he realises it's not a query he'd meant to voice. He can't help but imagine it, the girl's pale fingers thrusting into her cunt, spreading it wide. The sounds her movement would make.

"Umm, that's, does that matter?" There's barely a breath of hesitation before she asks, "Why, is something wrong? I mean, there wouldn't be, I've never, but could it, would it be bad if I had?" There's another short pause after which she adds, "I mean, theoretically."

"Ah, well, not likely. It depends how you go about it. If you don't at all and don't intend to, I'm sure you have nothing to worry about." 

"Right," she says, "well, certainly. Obviously." She wriggles her hips again. "But someday, I mean, if I do decide to do stuff, I mean, with my boyfriend who'll be my husband then, obviously-"

"Obviously," he mimics back, because he's not a complete idiot and he does know when he's being condescended to, and sometimes it's nice to react to it, however slightly. He may give the impression of being a religious man, but he is a doctor first and foremost; if she's afraid he'll start quoting doctrine at her in a situation like this, she has entirely the wrong measure of him.

"Well?"

"My concern was more that there are problems that can be detected during self-exploration which might be overlooked in a general examination. As I said before, I'll be very thorough with you."

"Okay," she exhales after a moment of hesitation. "That's good, I guess."

He sets the speculum aside. It may be warmed enough now but he wants- it may be kinder to start her off with something slightly less invasive. She was so tense, after all.

"Here, while we're warming up, I can do the bimanual before the speculum. Do you know what that means?"

"No," her response is quick.

"I'm going to fit a finger or two inside of you. I'll be able to feel it if you have any problems that would be hard to see. I might have to jostle you a bit, but it's generally not an uncomfortable procedure. Nothing cold, I promise."

"I, okay, I guess."

"Can you relax for me," he pets her mound again, smoothing his palm over her hair.

"I can try." She sounds dubious.

Her legs spread slightly wider. She exhales and her hips shift again, rustling the paper coating the chair before coming to a still rest.

He draws a finger down between her inner labia. They are still so slick for him, so beautifully soft and smooth under his touch.

It's almost criminal that no one's seen this; that no one knows how breathtaking she truly is. It's worse that only one other man ever might, and probably not even one who'd know enough to appreciate it.

The weight of the phone in his pocket sits heavy against his thigh. He ignores it.

He runs his finger up and down between them for a moment, soothing her and spreading her juices, then pauses at the entrance of her canal and presses in. 

She's ready to take him this time; her body is willing.

She is sublimely tight and hot, astonishingly wet, squeezing around just a finger.

He wants to give her more. She can take it. He wants to feel her stretch for him.

He pulls out of her and extends another finger, running them together between her folds. His fingers are soaked in a single movement but he makes more, sliding up and down along her lips. It's clear by her response that she enjoys it; it would be unkind to deny her the pleasure when he's gaining so much himself.

He hears the sound of a choked-off moan, caught under clamped lips. He gifts her one, two, and then three more strokes of her labia, then presses into her again.

The moan this time is louder, still caught back but less restrained.

"How do you feel?" he asks. It might be cruel to ask her to speak, but he does care.

"Fine!" The first consonant is long, drawn out like something pressed through a bitten lip. 

"Is this alright?" He moves inside her, just slightly, shifting his fingers in a circular motion then pressing up toward her pubic bone.

"Mmm-hmm,"

He moves his fingers more, feeling her out, getting to know the smooth sections and ripples inside her, reading her through touch.

Before he has her open, spread on metal so he can see into her, he wants to know her so well he'll meet no surprises.

He draws his fingers out of her then presses in as deep as he can reach. He can hear how her breathing changes in response and he wonders if she's cogent enough to know he can hear it. He does it again and again, shifting his angle slightly each time, mapping the first few inches of her canal.

"I need to press on your abdomen," he tells her, and hopefully she won't notice that he's slightly breathless himself. "You need to tell me if anything hurts when I do that. It could be very important if something feels tender."

She doesn't respond. 

"Do you understand?" He asks, and swivels his fingers inside her again.

"Yes!" She squeaks. Her hips jump, pressing the pads of his fingers hard against her inner wall. She's so wet that even his palm is slick. 

"Good girl," he mutters, and she whines, clenching down around him.

"Did I hurt you?" He fills his tone with as much professional concern as he can.

"No, I'm fine." Every word sounds laboured. "You must know, I'm, I'll let you know."

"Glad to hear it." He presses down on her mound. The symphysis is well-formed, but he knew that already. He presses up from below as he does, and she grunts lightly.

"Okay?"

"Yes, just, wasn't expecting it to feel like that."

He laughs again, "As long as it didn't hurt."

"Did not hurt," she's emphatic even through her laboured breathing.

"Good." He moves his palm upward, over the smooth, warm skin of her abdomen, and presses down again.

He hadn't considered that it might be harder to feel such things with an aroused patient, but after some effort he pulls together an image of her. Her uterus is a healthy size, positioned perfectly to avoid any trouble. She has no blockages or swelling around her tubes or ovaries. The entire system is in textbook perfect place. She is as flawless inside as out.

He keeps his hands on her for far longer than he needs to just to enjoy the pressure it lets him exert as her hips quake.

He moves his fingers within her, seeking out what anterior zones he can reach. Her body is as suitable to his preference in this as it has shown to be in all other ways; she contracts around him repeatedly, soaking his palm and dripping down his wrist.

He licks his lips as he takes her in, the sight and smell of her pleasure, and even dried and faint – scraped from her body by metal, transferred from there by a finger to his lips and left – the taste of her nearly undoes him. He wants it from the source, for no reason but his own edification. 

He is aware that any veneer of propriety has fled from this situation. 

Pulling repeated orgasms out of a patient is not part of the general procedure. He can't fully justify his enjoyment of this to himself anymore; he would be entirely unable to explain it to the NHS commissioner.

His only shield is her ignorance: she's too naive to fully understand what's happening, or at least to grasp how incredibly inappropriate his conduct is. And if she's not, or if that shield shatters, then he'll be left with the scraps of hoping that his otherwise sterling reputation will stand up against whatever accusations she throws at him. In his long career, he has never done anything like this; she will be a single voice standing alone if she speaks out against him. It's better if she doesn't, and maybe he can keep her confused and off-kilter enough to ensure that she won't, but if she does... if she does then it won't be any worse for him to do more than it has been for him to do this.

He wants to take pictures. He wants something material to remember this by. He wants to preserve her beauty, in image as well as memory. He wants, perhaps, to share it. He wants the freedom to stop clinging to self-delusion and simply lust. To simply take what he wants.

"You're doing very well, my dear," he tells her, feeling her shudder around him with the aftershocks of the pleasure he's just dragged from her. He removes his fingers gently, with a final caress to her labia, before reaching for the tissues. He dries his hand, then presses them against her, lightly, letting them soak up her scent and turn slick.

He moves, setting the tissues aside and attempting to be quiet as he extracts the phone from his pocket, but he needs something more than her harsh breathing to cover the sound.

"Your body reacts-" he cuts himself off and hums as though searching for appropriate phrasing, "very strongly to touch, doesn't it?" He works his phone free as she makes a series of false starts on a response.

"Does it?" She finally manages, voice high and tense.

"Oh, don't worry my dear. It's a perfectly natural response. I'm sure you'll find it very beneficial in some situations, though I would appreciate it if you'd try to control yourself through the rest of the procedure."

"I, I'll, yes, I'm sorry. I'm-"

"Nothing to worry about," he cuts her off. The camera application is simple enough to use – it's been set up to be as intuitive as possible – but he's never used it like this before and he's a bit nervous of it. 

Taking a picture will create a record, one that can't be denied. His hands on her may be excusable, and her reaction to his touch could be claimed to be entirely one-sided and exaggerated. But if he were found in possession of photographs secretly taken, there's no alibi for that.

She is worth the risk.

He presses the screen and takes a picture. It's done. One will be as damning as a dozen.

He angles the phone for another, and another after that, placing it close and drawing it back for detail and to capture the full glory of her. 

"Though I do have some concerns," he says, spreading her labia wide with his fingers and capturing the sight of that as well, preserving her pink, tight entrance, anticipating looking over it again when he's alone.

Her clitoris is a sweet little pearl, mostly hidden, and entirely appealing in its already flushed and sensitive state. Still, he wants to know if he can draw it out further. He wants to suck it to see if it will swell proud. He wants to feel it against his tongue.

"What kind of concerns?" The question comes breathless and slow. Her accent's still there, but less pronounced at the moment.

"Oh, nothing serious, I hope. I do want to be certain however, so I'll have to make use of additional equipment." 

He sets the phone down and picks up the speculum again, settling it between his thighs to warm. The cold of the metal has little affect on him through his trousers, and does nothing to lessen his own arousal, which is throbbing and begging to be released from its confinement. The colposcope is nearby, and that's an idea, but he's focused on his current task.

He grasps her by the hips and shifts her into the perfect position, pulling her ever so slightly down to spread her legs a slight but crucial distance farther apart.

"There will be some suction with this," he tells her in the same tone he'd used to warn her of pressure on her abdomen. "I'm told it feels strange to some people, but it shouldn't cause discomfort."

"Suction?" She asks, still sounding slightly dazed, "like a pussy pump?"

"A- a what?" He manages to fit as much scandalized fluster into his voice as the concept deserves, and huffs an incredulous laugh for her, "No, no, I have heard of them. No, not like a- one of those. We don't keep anything like that on hand. This isn't..." he lets himself hesitate for a moment to emphasize poorly concealed discomfort with the concept, "recreational."

"Oh, no, I mean, I wasn't, I didn't, I'm not a pervert, I swear, I'm not."

_'I rather suspect you are,'_ he thinks, but rather than saying so he just hums for a moment.

"Do tell me if it gets to be too much for you though, won't you?"

"Uh-huh. I'm, I'm sure I'll be fine with it. I don't mean to, I didn't mean, I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Good," he says, leaning close enough that with just a tilt of his head he could bury his face in her. The heady scent of her arousal surrounds him, strong and enticing. His mouth is almost as wet as her folds.

He allows himself one long lick, from the base of her hymen to the nub of her clitoris, parting her labia and gathering her taste on his tongue. She is delicious. He rolls her slick over his palate. His tongue delights in her; he would gorge himself on this. 

He pulls back and grins when he hears her gasp. "Alright?"

"Mmm-hmm!" She must be clamping her lips again.

"Lovely."

He leans back in, careful not to press too much of his face against her, and closes his lips around her clitoris. She jumps, just slightly, but it would be impossible not to notice the movement while in such intimate contact. Due to the delicate nature of his position he has to hold her down before she can feel too much of him – the sensation of a nose pressed against her would be beyond his lust-addled ability to explain right now if she were able to identify it. 

He presses a palm down on her hip and sucks.

She moans, a muffled sound, and follows it with what he's fairly certain is the noise of a hand slapping over a mouth.

He tongues at her hood, feeling out the firm flesh under it, pressing to see how it moves. She presses up into him, ever so slightly, shaking and soaking his chin when she bumps it.

He can't do more than suck, can't lick her in any more complicated manner, can't judiciously use his teeth and worshipfully tongue her folds as she deserves. It would be too much for her; even this is too much for her. He doesn't wish to be cruel.

He keeps the movements of his tongue simple and sucks with a strength he can only hope will be taken for mechanical.

The determination to ignore his own arousal has utterly abandoned him. He unfastens his trousers, not thinking to hide the sound but certain that she's too concerned with suppressing her own to notice. He's careful enough while drawing himself out that he doesn't let the speculum slip from his hold.

He doesn't think, but takes his hand from his penis to thrust his fingers back into the wet, tight warmth of her. He hears her whine, but it doesn't sound pained. He thrusts and crooks his fingers as he sucks, and she shudders and keeps shuddering under and around him until she bucks up hard, gushing again, clamping around his fingers.

He pulls his hand away, bringing his wet fingers and palm back to his prick to coat himself in her.

He keeps his suction steady. It takes less than a minute for her to reach another crest, writhing under the weight of his palm, clearly oversensitive but still drawn into pleasure.

He pulls away, finding a tissue for his face before her juices can slide down his chin.

He takes up the phone again. Her clitoris is even more pronounced for this set of pictures, round and pink and glistening from her satisfaction.

He doesn't say anything as he pulls over the colposcope. His first thought is that he wants it for the light – he can hardly make use of the phone's torch function – but it does present other possibilities.

"Once I set this up," he tells her, "we'll try the speculum again. It should be warm by now."

She doesn't respond, but he decides not to push her.

"This will let me check you for more serious problems. It's not too complicated; there's a bright light that will help me see you clearly, and when we open you up there's a sort of magnifying element that will let me take a look inside of you. This part of the examination can be uncomfortable, but it's important. If there are any signs of cancer or similar problems, this will let us detect and treat them early. Do you understand why it's necessary even so?"

"Yeah," her voice is unsteady even in the short syllable. 

"And it's okay for me to do this, you'll be able to handle it? You can always tell me if it gets to be too much."

"Yeah," her repetition is no more steady than before.

"You're doing very well," he says as he turns the light on her. He hears her shuddering exhale as he spreads her labia again, capturing her image on the phone. 

The new lighting highlights her differently, requiring an entirely new and comprehensive set of photographs. Her folds, plump and slick with arousal, glisten more under the focus of the colposcope's light, and it is only because he knows he'll have these pictures to linger over later that he's able to stop staring and move. He trades the phone for the speculum, now warmed by the heat of his thighs, and starts to slide it into her.

She takes it more easily now; not relaxed, but less tense in the wake of her orgasms. She gives only the barest hint of discomfort as he pushes it slowly between her folds and into her. She takes it beautifully, with only a slight grunt and a minute movement of her hips to better accommodate the angle.

He needs a moment to breathe himself before he starts to winch it open.

She hums as he starts to open her, sounding unsure.

"This part will feel a bit strange," he assures her, not hesitating in his task. "That's normal, no cause for concern."

He spreads her slowly but surely, giving her time to adjust to the intrusion and the new sensations.

His patience is rewarded as she stretches for him, pulled wide and open by his instrument, gloriously revealed, fully exposed to him.

She is, of course, just as much of a feast for his eyes inside as out. Her inner walls, pink and sumptuous, illuminated by the colposcope, are just as stunning as he'd known they would be.

"How does that feel?" He asks, almost fumbling with the phone as he captures this deepest, most intimate sight of her.

"I- it's strange. I can feel it holding me open. It doesn't hurt." She's still a bit breathless, far more coherent than she had been though.

"You have a cute cervix," he tells her, off his guard at the sight and stupid with affection for it. It's pink and smooth and healthy-looking, positioned beautifully, photogenically, at the deepest part of her that the light can reach.

"A- a cute..." there's an incredulous laugh of her own. "Good to know. I hear they kicked all the cervix models off Insta though, so I don't think that's gonna help me get internet famous."

"Well," he starts, and barely manages to shift his recommendation into, "I'm sure you're a clever girl. You can find a way to do whatever you put your mind to," before saying something truly inappropriate. 

"I'm going to swab you," he warns, just as he would in any other exam. "You might feel it, but I'll be quick." He takes a swab and reaches into her in the way he should, pressing it lightly against her cervix and packaging it properly on removal. He may be taking pleasure in her, but he's still providing her with necessary care. 

The thing about the colposcopy is that, if he were to perform one, it could lead to a biopsy, and that could lead to spotting, would certainly lead to some discharge, entirely to be expected. There would be nothing suspicious about a bit of strange fluid dripping out of her if he were to follow through on the process; there is, after all, the use of watery solutions to assist in the examination. 

He knows what he is going to do, but he dithers on it nonetheless. He keeps her open on the speculum and looks through the colposcope's viewer, committing the magnified sight of her to memory. This is surely the most intimate view of her anyone has ever taken. He is surely the one who deserves to have it, who will appreciate it most. 

He doesn't need to do the full examination; there's certainly nothing there that would require a biopsy. Still, he can say that's what he's done; she won't know enough to question the details of a strange procedure. She'll be too embarrassed to ask inconvenient questions. She won't want anyone to think of her as a pervert who gets off on the medical routines proper ladies complain and commiserate over.

"There is, and it's probably nothing to be worried about, but there is something I'll have to look into a little more."

"Ah, you haven't looked your fill yet?" If it's a joke, it's even weaker than her last. She has reason to be distracted though, his attempts at comfort probably aren't enough to outweigh how nerve-racking it must be to be continually told your doctor is concerned about what he's seeing. 

The guilt of that sits heavy and hard in his chest for a moment, but other concerns are heavier and harder.

"It shouldn't take too long," he says, and it shouldn't. He won't hurt her. He'll be gentle. He'll barely impose.

He is so hard that it's painful. He's certain that he'll need only the barest touch to reach completion.

He's careful as he removes the speculum, slow and precise in his movements. He hesitates, waiting to feel himself change course, waiting for the realisation of a reason why he shouldn't proceed with this plan to overpower him. It can't. She is irresistible. 

"Have you ever had a biopsy?" He asks.

"No," her voice is tense and nervous.

"They're sometimes part of the colposcopy. We'll do one today. It's the part people find most uncomfortable, but you've no need to worry. I've been practicing for a while now, so I've learned how to distract patients from the unpleasant parts."

"Oh, good." She's still nervous, barely trying to hide it. He pets her mound with a soothing touch. 

"I'm going to have to open you again. It won't be quite like the speculum, but I know you can handle it. You might feel some odd pressure, some say there's a cramping sensation, but I'll be gentle, I promise."

"I'll bet you say that to all the girls."

"I do. This really isn't anything to be nervous about. You should be about as concerned as you would be about having your temperature taken." He pats her knee again, gentle and comforting, and he thinks he feels her make an effort to relax.

"I'll try to keep that in mind," she says as he stands. He should still be concealed behind the curtain from her perspective; lord knows what she'd think if she saw his face, if she'd seen any of his expressions over course of the examination. 

He grasps her hips, tilting them to best position her for his access. 

He has seen her, felt her with his hands and tongue, tasted her on his lips. Surely this isn't so much more of a liberty to take. Surely she came to him for a reason, and that reason wasn't that she was in ill health, so it must have been for this, so that he could experience her perfection, if only just the once. So that someone capable of appreciating it could have this.

He presses into her, reverential.

She is perfection. She is so tight, so wet, so hot around him. He'd needed to feel her like this, encompassing him where he's most sensitive. 

She moans, and he moans in sympathy, and she must, thank goodness, take it as mockery, because she gasps and tries to pass it off as banter with, "Oh my, doctor, what a big thermometer you have."

He reaches down to pinch her clitoris.

She gasps again, tightening around him.

"Are you alright?" He asks, taking the opportunity to pull out slightly, the show of concern giving him the opportunity to thrust back in, feel her envelop him again. 

"Perfect." It could be taken as sardonic. He doesn't think it is. Of course she's perfect, he can feel the enjoyment she's taking in his touch, of course her body is providing her with as much pleasure as it's giving him.

He presses deeper, exceptionally slowly, savouring every millimetre stretched around him, keeping his fingers moving on her clitoris, feeling how she responds to every shift from the inside.

She shifts her hips, making short, rhythmic little movements, trying to impale herself on him without letting her actions come to notice.

He can't bury himself in her, not to the root. He is almost overwhelmed already; he won't make it that deep. She would soak his clothes if he tried.

He keeps working her between his fingers, stops trying to push deeper and lets her push herself onto him. "You really are doing so well," he tells her, and she shudders and clenches around him. That's what he needs; it has to be better than anything in heaven, to feel her ride out her pleasure on him.

Her chart had noted when she'd last menstruated. He'd seen the state of her cervix. He accepts the decision he's already made. 

"I know you were nervous," he tells her, "but you're very brave, seeing this through." She tightens around him, right on the edge, forcing his body to tighten and teeter with hers.

"You should be proud. You're so good at this, such a good girl. You're exceptional."

She convulses around him at the praise. He can feel every tremor from her bliss encircling him, pulling his own release out of him, massaging it deeper into her body.

He pulls out as soon as he can bear to. The sweet slide as he leaves her, as she clings to him still, will drive him back to ecstasy when he thinks of this later, he knows.

He takes his hand from her and tucks himself away; let their combined fluids dry under his clothes, any discomfort will be worth the tug of the memory. 

He takes the phone up again, takes his pictures of her, used and drenched and just as beautiful with it. 

A line of his semen drips from her, dragged down to her entrance by his exit. He makes certain to capture the journey of his finger, lifting it up and pressing it back inside.

"That should be all we needed," he tells her, spreading her labia for one more picture, pulling up to frame her clitoris for one after that.

"Let me, hmm, dry you off. You do get excited, don't you?"

"I don't know what you mean." She sounds too dazed to make a good show of true ignorance. He smiles to himself again.

"As I said, perfectly natural. You did wonderfully, my dear. I'd have hardly known it was your first time."

He knows people find it old-fashioned, but he still carries a handkerchief on him – he's found it useful in a variety of situations. This, undoubtedly, is one of them. She deserves better than tissues to be binned.

He runs it over her hymen – flexible, low, and entirely unaffected by what they've done – and up, carefully drying the folds of her labia and patting at her clitoris and the slick skin around it.

He pockets the handkerchief and goes over her one last time with the phone. She is just as entrancing now that his lust has been slaked as she was before. If he could, he would put his mouth back on her; if there were any plausible excuse, he would push his fingers back into her until they were too sore to move.

He pockets the phone as well, checks to make sure he looks presentable, and lifts his discarded pair of gloves, pulling and releasing on one of their wrists as he does so she'll hear the snap. He steps around the curtain and bins them in front of her, smiling down at the pink-cheeked sight of her with strands of hair stuck to the side of her face. She had enjoyed herself.

"How are you feeling?" he asks again, soft and caring and gentle as his reputation demands.

"I'm fine." He watches her swallow and repeat, "I'm fine, great really. Never been better. And it's all," she waves a hand vaguely at the curtain, "alright?"

"It's all alright," he says with a smile. "Some of the samples we took will need to be sent for testing, but everything I saw and felt was perfect. I'm very sure you're entirely healthy."

"Good, well, you'll, uh, you'll let me know, I guess." She twists awkwardly, trying to get her feet out of the stirrups while still covered by the curtain. 

"Just a moment," he reaches over her to pull the curtain back. "It can be a bit disorientating, being on your back for so long. Let me help you up."

She flushes a bit more when she sits up, trying to avoid the portion of paper covering the chair that she'd soaked.

"Here, stand up," he fits his hands around her hips again and pulls her up.

"Are you sore at all?"

She totters like a newborn giraffe on her heels, but shakes her head.

"Excellent," he gives her a light pat on the hip before releasing her and picking up her skirt.

"There might be some discharge or spotting over the next few days. Don't worry if you see or feel anything like that - it's perfectly normal, just your body refreshing itself after what we did here."

He doesn't wait for any sort of response before dropping to a knee in front of her. That brilliant thatch of hair is just out of reach, veiling her mound and drawing the eye. She looks spectacular like this. 

"Up," he commands, tapping at her ankle. She lifts her leg obediently, letting him slide the skirt over her heel. He glances up at her as she moves, at the way, just for a second, her unsteady balance lets him see a flash of her folds as she shifts her weight.

She shouldn't wear clothes, not with a body like hers.

"This one," he taps her other ankle, and she obeys just as readily, letting him slip the skirt over her shoe and catch another tantalising glimpse of pink.

He pulls it up, over her shins and thighs and finally over her hips, concealing her fully. That's what feels like a criminal act. She leans back against the side of the examination chair, head tilted down to watch through her lenses as he finds the zip and pulls it up, molding the fabric tight to her body. Her mouth hangs open, just slightly, and if anything she blushes more when he runs his hands over her hips, smoothing the line of her outfit. 

"All set?" he asks, and she looks around wildly for a moment before nodding.

He hands her her purse, and she busies herself with it as he stands. He positions himself in front of the chair and looks at her until she looks back.

"I believe you when you say that you're not expecting to become sexually active any time soon, but I want to make it clear that if you and your young man do decide to take that step, I'm here to provide a medical service, not judgement. I'll help you out with anything you need, including birth control. If you have any concerns about any of this, health-focused or otherwise, you can come to me." 

"Yeah, got it. I'll, uh, I'll give it a think."

She strides to the door. "Call me." She hesitates with her hand on the knob; he thinks she might be wincing. "I mean, when you get the results. Let me know. Okay. Thanks. See you."

She's gone before he can respond to that. 

"Well," he whispers to himself. He takes up a scrap of black fabric – the underwear she'd forgotten – and puts it in his pocket alongside the handkerchief. He very much likes the idea of her walking home without it, that short skirt lifting just enough to share what he already knows with anyone blessed enough to catch a glimpse.

He disinfects the instruments and puts the room to rights with barely a thought for the process.

He checks again for the phone in his pocket and retrieves her file from where he'd left it. He takes one last look around the room, making sure he's left all as he found it, confirming that no evidence of what just happened will remain within it, and slips out the door himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope you’ve enjoyed it.


End file.
